


Lost

by MyckiCade



Category: Gotham - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Shot, Song-inspired, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:00:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: He didn't need to know names, not tonight. He didn't have the time.





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: I wrote this, last October. Finally getting around to putting it up. And, I’ll admit, I’m some distance behind, on Gotham, so, this follows no current timeline.

Said I wouldn't call, but, I lost all control.  
Guess I'd rather hurt, than feel nothing at all.

 - Lady Antebellum, _Need You Now_

 

There was a satisfying crunch that accompanied the collision of Oswald's fist, with the face of the asshole that had managed to piss him off. He hadn't even bothered to get the lowlife's name, before he'd started beating him to the ground, but, it was hardly of consequence. He didn't need to know names, not tonight. He didn't have the time. Around here, they were all thugs, criminals... Useless members of society, as Oswald would know, himself, from experience. Everyone trying to make it, in the least honest way, possible.

Sickening.

Two steps from hypocrisy, though it was, Oswald didn't care. Couldn't care. What good did it do to compare his wrongs, against the wrongs of others? No one was going to look at a secondary lackey, and say, "Well, this guy isn't so bad. He (insert your crime of choice)-ed FOR others. He didn't call the shots, himself". It was quite the opposite, as he'd ever encountered. If you were a henchman, you were scum. If you were the ringleader, well, you were still scum, but, you were respected scum. Notoriety went a long way, even in today's Gotham. Some days, Oswald figured, riding the coat tails of his own reputation was the only thing saving his stupid ass.

The man beneath his boots, however, didn't seem to see things quite the same way.

One more swing, and he dropped the near-unconscious lump to the ground. Done. Oswald's chest was heaving, whether from anger, or exertion, or a combination, he didn't care to speculate. Calming down just wasn't in the cards, for him, either way, so, why bother? Reaching up, he gave his damp hair a sloppy shove, back into place. A faint burning sensation barely registered, where his scraped knuckles were concerned, the power of the almighty drink once again coming to his aid. Shit, he'd been at the bottle, far too much, lately. He was starting to count on it, always having his back. His liver was going to have a fit, soon enough. Well, if Jim didn't, first...

Jim. Oh, why the ever-loving _fuck_  did his mind have to bring _him_  up?! Jim was done with him, he'd already said so. Sworn him off. Walked out on him. Well, away, at any rate. They'd never made it anywhere near domesticity, a pipe dream that would never track. What good did it do Jim to keep him around? Trouble, trouble, trouble, that's all the Great James Gordon had bitched about for the last, what? Year? It was a tired song, Oswald had told him. Time and again, the same story.

"You know where the door is, James," Oswald hadn't been shy to respond, even as every round of repetition caused a deeper crack in his heart. "No one is holding you prisoner, in my home."

It had become a broken record, the words on loop, and reserved for the repeat performance that was sure to occur. That was the funny thing, though. He hadn't even had the chance to say it, the last time they'd argued. Had they argued? It was so difficult to remember, now. (To be fair, that could have been the whiskey's fault).

Stepping over the mass of person at his feet, Oswald grimaced, as his foot landed in a puddle of water. It must have rained, while he was tucked away, drinking, but, that was of little surprise. It always seemed to rain, in Gotham. Day in, day out. Sunrise, sunset. Oswald felt that he was forever shaking out his umbrella, or wiping up the droplets of water that would drip off of Jim's coat, as it hung on the rack.

Damn it. There he was, again.

Picking up, as he had left off. Memory relayed that Jim had just... stopped coming around. Had the girlfriend come back, he often wondered? Were they arranging a wedding, spring or fall? Buying a home? Planning on children? It would have been easy enough to find out, he reminded himself. A couple of well-placed phone calls, and a tail later, Oswald would have all of the information he could need, and then some.

"And, when I'm gone, Os? Don't bother coming to find me. Have the decency to leave me to my life."

Hobbling down a back alley, umbrella left... somewhere he couldn't name, with blood dripping down his fingers, and Jim's voice echoing in his spinning head? Yeah... Yeah, he knew why he wasn't making those calls.

"Believe me, Jim, you'll be the last thing on my mind."

Damn it, how he wished he could have been right.


End file.
